


Three Words He Couldn't Say

by QueenOfTheShipWreck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfTheShipWreck/pseuds/QueenOfTheShipWreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been exactly a year since Sherlock left John broken and empty, and John lay in his bed awake remembering his last happy memory with the man he could never resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Words He Couldn't Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story on this site and my first time writing outright smut, I hope it's an adequate representation of my writing skills and love of the television show Sherlock.

-There was an oblong shape on the ceiling at which John was staring, and he could barely make it out in the darkness of the room. It was nearly 1 a.m. and rest had yet to wrap itself around him once more after he awoke with a start one hour before. He still vividly remembered the dream that abruptly brought him out of his slumber panting and covered in a cold sweat. A memory, long repressed, which had manifested itself in his subconscious only to rear its devastating head in his sleep. At exactly midnight, it had become The Day. The anniversary of the most unbelievably wretched day of his life. The Day Sherlock Holmes committed suicide before John's very eyes. The day he was told repeatedly that Sherlock was a fake by Sherlock himself and then watched him leap off the roof of a building. But that was not the memory of which John dreamt. No. That memory he recalled daily and occasionally shed a single tear for. This dream was something John held dear to himself. He held onto it as the last happy moment he and Sherlock shared. And no therapist nor anyone else would ever hear of it, because this was the happiest moment in his life and he'd be damned if he let some Oxford quack dissect it.

 

•It occurred at 221b Baker Street, which John had not returned to since that day but which he continued to rent lest someone else move into it and change anything, and it was two nights before The Day. Sherlock sat on the couch wearing his robe and brooded over Moriarty. 

"Sherlock, you've been sitting there since three, that's four hours straight now. Mrs. Hudson brought some tea. She's worried about you." John was beginning to think Sherlock had fallen asleep with his eyes open. 

 

Moments passed in still silence, and then Sherlock answered, "Well, while I somewhat appreciate the gesture, I don't need her to watch after me like a child. I'm perfectly fine caring for myself. Besides, I'm concentrating. You should try it sometime," he snapped haughtily without looking at John or even blinking for that matter.

_Oh no,_ thought John. _He's in_ **that** _kind of a mood. Must've hit a rare wall._

"She's not treating you like a child. She's treating you like a grown man who is obsessed with another grown man, who hasn't eaten or slept in days, and who smells as though he hasn't showered in weeks." John smiled at his little joke. Sherlock didn't reply, and John assumed that he wasn't listening and that he hadn't been listening from the beginning. But John continued anyway, seeing as this would be the only time he could speak his mind without Sherlock correcting him or criticizing his thoughts and opinions. "Sherlock, you're obviously much more intelligent than Moriarty, and you're putting such strain on yourself but I'm sure if you just took a step back and did something else, something plain, with your time, like, I dunno, eat or shower or even bloody go piss, you might be able to clear your head and solve whatever enigma you're pondering. I bet you could do this, whatever it is, in your sleep if you just stopped adding to the pile of madness building up in your mind for a moment. But everything's got to be so damn complicated with you." Now John was beginning to get angry as he let himself fall into blabbering with barely any thought. Now, he was only speaking through a stream of consciousness. He didn't care if Sherlock was listening. As long as he could say what had to be said. "Never can you just do something simple. You refuse to sleep because it's pointless and time consuming? Sherlock, the way you act, I wonder if you're even human sometimes. You won't even go to the store because it's tedious. Even when we have no fucking food in this damned place. Which there isn't since you find no use of it. And if you ever have a use for anything that's all you do with it. Use it and when you're finished you toss it away or ignore it. Why is Moriarty so important to you? Is it because he's playing a fun game with you? Hm? Is it because you're bored with your most recent source of entertainment? Why is he so important to you, Sherlock! Why!" And suddenly, John was bellowing at Sherlock. He wanted his attention now. Wanted and demanded an answer. When he received none, he howled, "SHERLOCK-!"

"Because he threatened you, John..." Sherlock replied loudly, his voice cracking and fading to a barely audible whisper at John's name.

 

John blinked. All his anger tumbling out of his fingertips which pointed downward by his sides now that he had unclenched his fists. He must've heard incorrectly. "What?" he asked, his question barely as loud as Sherlock's last word.

"I know you heard me perfectly fine." He glanced up suddenly, his eyes looked almost watery, but John blinked and the eyes were gone, facing forward in a distant but calculating stare once more. And Sherlock said nothing more. But before John turned away, he could've sworn he saw something glistening on Sherlock's cheek.•

 

The shape on the ceiling moved and John realized that it was a shadow of something hidden outside by the curtains of his window. The shape looked so familiar. But it was only the ghost of something that John knew could never be what he wished it to be.

 

•Sherlock sat unmoving for two more hours and it was nine when he looked up sharply and whispered something John could only hear a bit of, "We all fall down." What he meant by it, John hadn't the foggiest idea. But it was slightly distressing, because John knew what it meant to fall, to lose everything. After the war, before he met Sherlock of course, his night terrors and sudden outbursts of rage scared off his girlfriend of three years and his mind wasn't nearly as sharp as it had been. What with his war bitten body and his stress beaten mind, he had had nothing but his own flat and no one but himself for quite some time. When he met Sherlock, he was scarred and broken. His body barely supporting the great weight of his impending insanity. Not to mention the still sensitive scars that littered his skin from head to toe. But Sherlock had given him a reason not to lose his mind. And his limp had seemed to evaporate out of his body at his and Sherlock's first adventure. Sherlock had fixed him. Brought him out of his unending nightmare and gave him a new life which he adored. The thought of this man losing all that he had, including John, was frightening. He saved John from burning alive inside his own head and now Sherlock was burning himself, but no one could save him.

 

"Did you say something, Sherlock?" John knew he wouldn't repeat what he had said, but he suddenly wanted Sherlock to speak to him so badly. To recognize that he was there. There for Sherlock no matter what. And he wanted him to know this. More than anything, he wanted Sherlock to understand this.

"I said, I'm feeling a bit peckish." And John knew it was an outright lie, but he ignored this fact and responded, "Shall we order out then?"

 

"Yes." And it was all Sherlock said before picking his phone out of his pocket and striding into his room. Knowing that Sherlock didn't intend to call for food because it was John's job apparently, he ordered Chinese and sat down in the armchair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. _Well, at least he stood up._

John wasn't hungry at all, he realized after he had ordered the food. He was too concerned for Sherlock. But when the delivery boy appeared, John suddenly found himself famished. And Sherlock rushed out of his room to collect his food in record timing. _He could've won an Olympic gold medal if there was Chinese food at the end of the race._ John chuckled softly to himself at the thought. Neither of the men spoke as they ate and Sherlock only looked away from his food when he reached for his drink. Something was on his mind. After their food was either gone or put into the fridge John made tea and Sherlock sat and, of course , brooded some more.•

 

The shadow moved and John's chest constricted. He felt as though he was being crushed by a steam roller that was only the length of his rib cage. It was a few moments of gasping and clutching at his sides before he realized that he recognized the feelings he was experiencing. It was the pure agony of feeling his heart completely shatter into dust. And he had only felt it once before: when he watched Sherlock leap of the roof of a building and die all within a five minute span and all less than 100 meters away from where John had been standing. But his memory persisted, because he couldn't forget that night. Ever.

 

~ "Sherlock, if you're going to think for another four hours without speaking, could you at least do some of your thinking and not speaking in the shower. And while you're in there could you multitask by thinking, not speaking, and cleaning yourself up as well?"

Without a word Sherlock stood and divested himself of his robe. Laying it on the back of the chair, he padded to the bathroom and a few moments later John could hear the shower being turned on. Then, "John, there is no towel in here. We have discussed this before. Would you please bring me one. I've already undressed."

John sighed and stood, "I distinctly remember replacing the towel I used earlier due to the discussions we've had on the topic, but there's really no sense in arguing," he said aloud but more to himself and the flat than to Sherlock as he retrieved a towel from the linen closet and opened the bathroom door slightly to give Sherlock the towel.

Suddenly , there was a hand tightly gripping his wrist and pulling him into the bathroom, which had begun to fill with steam. And before John could comprehend what was happening, the door was shut behind him and a pair of soft thin lips were pressed against his. Gently they began to move and his own followed them though he didn't know why. It seemed instinctual, but John had never really been attracted to another man. Well, besides Sherlock.

Wait, what was he thinking? He wasn't attracted to Sherlock. 

 

But the tingle going down his spine as Sherlock kissed him begged to differ. John felt so out of place in this position, but nothing in his entire life, not becoming a doctor, not joining the military and serving his country, hell not even wanking off, had ever felt so right and so good. Sherlock's hands were in John's hair now and he was parting his lips slowly as his tongue snuck out and between John's lips. Before John had time to react, Sherlock's tongue had begun its exploration of John's mouth while somehow simultaneously massaging his tongue. The low moan that escaped John's mouth and was swallowed by Sherlock was completely involuntary and possibly the most embarrassing thing John had ever experienced in his life. Now a bright red and panting like a bitch in heat, John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's, albeit with a little hesitation, and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Shhhh..." And the soft lips returned, this time more urgent and less gentle. John's mind stuttered a bit but soon caught up with Sherlock, as much as he ever could. He noticed that Sherlock had indeed already undressed. His hands were now making quick work of John's button down and in what seemed like nano seconds the shirt was on the ground. The warm steam hit John's torso sharply and his chest seemed to sting with its fresh nudity. Now Sherlock's hands wandered to John's trousers and John was unsure of his comfort with this. With the entire situation really. But his mouth was occupied at the moment and before he could detach his lips to protest his trousers were around his ankles and his pants were the only thing separating his and Sherlock's bodies.

Whether it was to tease John or to keep him from panicking, Sherlock left the pants on and opted for tracing circles on John's hips as he continued his incredibly thorough investigation of John's mouth. Another louder moan arose from John when Sherlock finally dipped his thumb into the waste band of John's pants, just barely brushing his hardening manhood.•

 

The memory washed over John, almost drowning him in an emotion he had almost forgotten. One he dared not describe, but one he knew all too well from the moment he had first met Sherlock. An emotion some might venture, unwisely, to call love, but what John only knew how to explain as utter and almost enraging confusion. Which, when really pondered, is the definition of love, isn't it? But, John would not allow that word to pass his lips ever again. 

 

• A few more minutes of snogging passed and it seemed that Sherlock had thrown all pretenses of patience and gentleness out the window as his hands dove into John's pants and swiftly grasped his fully hard cock. A surprised but not entirely unpleased yelp escaped John and this noise was by far the most embarrassing one yet. 

"Sh-Sherlock, what are- are you sure-" 

"Yes, now shut up. I'm busy, can't you see?" And then John's pants were on the ground, and so were Sherlock's knees. Still holding it firmly in his right hand, Sherlock gave John's cock a gentle squeeze, looking up at him to gauge his reaction to the ministrations. Next, Sherlock began to slowly pump his hand up and down John's shaft watching John's face contort with pleasure and listening to his breathing accelerate tenfold. Sherlock's succeeding move almost floored John as he was attacked by a pleasure he had not known in years. Lips, the soft lips that had moments before left him breathless, were now wrapped around the head of his cock and John was now evoking noises that would make a whore blush. What surprised John even more was that Sherlock had begun to use his tongue to trace every inch of the head. White hot pleasure seared through him and he was afraid he would be finished in moments if this continued. All the while, Sherlock's eyes never left John's face, never ceased looking for clues about how to pleasure the man standing above him. Their eyes met occasionally and while Sherlock seemed to have no problem in maintaining eye contact, John was unable to hold the stare as he watched his own cock slide in and out of Sherlock's mouth. Finally, he let his head fall back against the bathroom door and his fingers slide into Sherlock's hair.

"F-fuck. Sherlock," was all he could manage through his moans and gasps. And when Sherlock chuckled low in his chest, the vibrations shot up John's spine like 600 volts of pure uninhibited pleasure. "Jesus! Oh god!" he cried and gripped onto Sherlock's head for dear life. His mind racing at a thousand miles per second, John could only just barely process what was happening to him, but it was enough to realize that he had no objection whatsoever to this and he would gladly, eagerly, reciprocate when Sherlock had finished him.•

 

John was suddenly painfully aware of something growing in his pants and he was really in no mood to be hot and bothered. However, there was nothing he could do at the moment, for his memory would not go away uncompleted, but he dared not touch himself. Not when Sherlock was his topic of thought. 

~Sherlock was now taking most of John's cock into his mouth, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks, and John was positive that Sherlock had done some research. Moaning occassionally and sending more vibrations through John's member, Sherlock somehow managed to smirk incredibly smugly, as though he didn't have a cock in his mouth at the moment. John was in too much of a hazed pleasure to really give any fucks on the matter. As long as Sherlock continued his actions, nothing would upset John for a while, maybe even ever again, he thought. Suddenly, as though he hadn't realized he was being sucked off, John's orgasm overtook him. He groaned loudly, "SHERRLO-CKK!" Emptying himself onto Sherlock's tongue, he was completely taken aback when he saw Sherlock swallow every last drop of come like it was his favorite tea. Now dizzy with his orgasm and feeling elated, John watched Sherlock get to his feet and stand before him, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. Without hesitation, John swept Sherlock up into a deep, lust-filled kiss, tasting himself and involuntarily moaning yet again. Wanting to make Sherlock feel as fantastic as he had just felt, John began to kiss his way down Sherlock's neck and chest, but before he could go any further down than Sherlock's nipples, he was halted. "No, John."

"But-"

"I haven't the patience for that." And by this John was utterly confused. He didn't have the patience to get off? "I want you inside me... NOW." And suddenly, John was rock hard once more.

"But, we haven't got any lube-" As the word came from his mouth a tube came from out of the cabinet and John shut his mouth quickly. Sherlock shoved the tube into John's hands and turned around, bending forward and bracing his hands on the vanity. 

"I believe this is the part where you prepare me to be fucked thoroughly?" But John had no idea, he had never partaken in anything of this nature. He stood there, staring at Sherlock's perfectly shaped ass for a long moment. The tube of lube heating up in his hands. After what seemed like a very ling time, he heard an exasperated huff and watched Sherlock stand and face him once more. Taking the tube from John's hands, he opened the cap and applied a generous amount of the liquid to his own three fingers. He handed John the tube again and resumed his previous position. All the while, John watched, frozen.

Sherlock then proceeded to slide a single finger into his puckered entrance and wiggle it around slowly, drawing out a long low moan. Not five seconds later adding a second finger and pumping them in and out of himself. It appeared to John that this was not the first, nor even second, time that Sherlock had done this to himself. And after adding the third finger, Sherlock began emitting noises that brought John out of his dumbstruck stupor as he watched this beautiful image of Sherlock finger fucking himself in preparation for John's cock. Quickly, he squeezed a good amount of lube into his palm and slowly applied it to his straining member, reveling in the smooth feeling and imagining how wonderfully tight and hot Sherlock would feel around him. Sherlock yelped at that moment and it seemed that he had located his prostate and was working restlessly at massaging it with his three fingers. John became frustrated with watching and not partaking in the pleasuring of the man before him and aggressively grabbed the hand prodding into Sherlock. Ripping it away from his entrance, John then positioned himself firmly at Sherlock's pleading hole. He grabbed a hold of Sherlock's hips and slowly, torturously, slid into Sherlock. Simultaneously, they moaned. "Jo-o-ohn, please," Sherlock whimpered and John almost didn't believe his ears. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in the world, the proudest man in the world, was whimpering, was begging John for more. It sent an enormous rush of power coursing through his veins. When he had fully seated himself inside Sherlock, he stopped completely. Another huff and grumbling. "What was that, Sherlock?"

"I said PLEASE MOVE," he answered almost grumpily and John chuckled quietly. 

He thought about simply giving Sherlock what he wanted but quickly realized that making him beg, making him use the filthiest words possible to convey what he wanted, would be so much more gratifying. "I'm going to need you to be a bit more specific Sherlock. I could move-" He pulled out all together, "If that's what you'd like-"

"FUCK ME, JOHN. FUCK ME LIKE A FILTHY WHORE. MAKE ME SCREAM. MAKE ME COME AND THEN KEEP FUCKING ME. POUND INTO ME UNTIL I PASS OUT, JUST, please." He was defeated and, at that, John was more than happy to oblige this request. Swiftly plunging back into Sherlock's awaiting asshole, John was overwhelmed by the pressure that immediately began to build in his gut. Pleasure defused throughout his body as he pulled out and thrust back in with enough force to push Sherlock forward against the vanity.

"Aaahh... yes..." Sherlock moaned and forced his hips back against John's thrusts. The heat enveloping John's cock was almost too much and he had to focus on not coming too early as he listened to Sherlock's desperate mewling and moaning in the throes of pleasure. It truly was a sight to behold, this gorgeous man moaning like a porn star and moving so smoothly and needingly against him. John was sure that if he stopped thrusting Sherlock would continue to roll his hips back and effectively fuck himself without John having to do a thing more than stand there and be the object Sherlock was impaling himself on. But there was no fun in that. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips and stilled him. Increasing his speed dramatically, John picked up a rough almost violent pace, but Sherlock seemed not to mind in the slightest. In fact, he did nothing to protest the harsh pace and all he could to encourage a more rough speed; shouting John's name over and over like it was poetry, and it did sound like poetry, falling from his lips it sounded like the most beautiful poem John had ever heard and he made it a point in his mind to hear that poem as often as possible. Along with his dangerously fast speed, John decided to reach around Sherlock's hips and grab hold of his cock. Pre-cum was already leaking from it and John felt it his civil duty to bring Sherlock to the most satisfying finish he had ever experienced in his life. He began to gently tug on the shaft, a lovely contrast to the treatment he was giving Sherlock's ass at the moment. Apply more pressure to Sherlock's cock, he began to feel him tighten slightly and knew what must come next. 

"Oh, god, John, more, please, faster!" Simple commands and exclamations were all he could manage and John took pride again in being the only person in the world who could take this great man and reduce him to a babbling, pleading, moaning mess. His hand on Sherlock's cock sped up and moments later Sherlock was shattering, coming undone around John so hard that his knees gave out and the only thing holding him up was John's hands on him. John followed suit, watching Sherlock explode was his undoing and all he could do was groan as he, for the second time that day, climaxed. This orgasm better than the last. He actually saw white for a brief moment. He barely managed to help both of them up as his orgasm ebbed away. He gently pulled his softening cock out of Sherlock, who made the smallest noise of what seemed like a mixture of relief and disappointment.

Seconds later, Sherlock was standing up straight, still facing away from John, taking deep breaths. John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, kissing the back of his neck and smiling. "John, I- I want to say something. But I don't think I can." And John stepped away from Sherlock at this. 

"What are you getting at Sherlock?" He was now far from basking in the afterglow of a wonderful orgasm and standing in the heat of nerves and discomfort.

"I've never said it before-"

"You don't have to start now." John began to panic. "I mean, I don't want you to feel obligated to say anything."

"But I do. I just don't think I know how to."

"That's all right."

"But I want to, John." And then John realized what was happening. What Sherlock was saying. Not only had he never said it before, he had never felt it before. Before he knew John. He suddenly felt exactly the same way toward Sherlock, and it was strange and confusing and uncomfortable. 

"Say something else, then."

"I should shower now." And John agreed.

That night John's head felt heavier than usual on his pillow, but it had never been more difficult for him to fall asleep, and for a man who suffered from PTSD, that was a statement. So, at around midnight, when he heard his bedroom door open, he was a bit relieved to have some sort of company to ease the crushing presence of quiet in the room. Soft footsteps traveled to his bed where they stopped and then the mattress sank under the weight of someone sitting next to John's upper back.

"John." Only his name was whispered, for Sherlock, who knew John far too well for his own good, knew that he was wide awake as ever. "I think I have the proper statement to make now." John did not answer nor did he make a gesture to indicate he comprehended, but Sherlock continued nonetheless. "I have now realized that I am unable, and may never be able, to say what I feel toward you. However, I do not want you to take that as a sign that I do not... feel this way about you. So, I've come up with something that means practically the same thing but does not blatantly state it, as I would not be able to say it." Still, John gave no implication of being aware of Sherlock's presence in his room. 

Sherlock sighed. "John... I... don't not... love you." And then there was a long silence. It must have lasted hours by John's count. The pressure on the mattress shifted and then was gone.

"Sherlock, I don't not love you too." And then it was silent again for a long while. The presence returned to the mattress, this time in the form of Sherlock pressing his body against John's back and wrapping his arms around his torso. Sherlock kissed the back of his neck and whispered again, this time more smoothly and less hesitantly, "I don't not love you so much, John."

They slept.~

The cold air of John's room made the tears streaming down his face sting his eyes and bite his cheeks. But he could do nothing to stop them. Sitting up and placing his face in his hands, he sobbed for a while, and when he looked up at the ceiling again, the shadow had gone.

"I don't not love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always won't not love you."


End file.
